A Gift
by Chibikat the Canuck
Summary: (pre-island, oneshot) Jack receives - and contemplates - a gift from his father for his birthday.


*Disclaimer*: God forbid I ever owned Lord of the Flies, because then it would never be studied in schools due to its extremely high content of homoeroticism. And, as fun as that would be, I'm sure the Catholic school I attend wouldn't take kindly to it, sadly.  
  
*Rating*: I dunno. PG, because of a bit of swearing, and a few scant Britishisms.  
  
*Author's Notes*: Like so many of the other entries in the Lord of the Flies section, this started out as an English assignment; and, because my teacher is so awesomely cool, she let us have a lot of free creative reign on it. This is the result - the moment I started reading the book, I'd been immediately fascinated by Jack. He obviously isn't all that bad...so I set out to explore what, exactly, makes him tick. You know, I think I've got a complex of liking the characters people are supposed to hate (hell, when I was going through my Pokemon phase, my favourite characters were Team Rocket. God how I loved that cross-dressing duo and their superfundiferous feline).  
  
...that aside. I hope you like this. ^^;  
  
~*~  
  
A Gift  
  
~*~  
  
Jack silently fingered the blade of the knife; it was cold and hard, as was to be expected from such a tool, and it slid smoothly against the boy's skin. The leather hilt was at once rough and smooth in his palm, and Jack was able to feel where the hide wasn't terribly well tanned in some places. It wasn't the best quality, but it certainly was far from being the worst on the market - for, as war efforts continued to dramatically increase, so did production (though certainly not the quality) of most all weapons available.  
  
It was a gift from his father. Clicking his tongue against the palette of his mouth, Jack laid down on his bed, holding the knife up to the light, studying it much as one would a complex equation, balancing it a bit precariously with one finger on the butt, and one gently pressing against the sharp tip. To be sure, the knife was fully capable of serving the most basic of purposes - that is, cutting and hunting. However, with the artificial light of his lamp glinting off of the new blade, it actually looked rather aesthetically pleasing. Almost pretty. A thin trickle of blood ran down the length of Jack's finger, palm, and eventually his arm, as the tip of the knife blade dug into the flesh of his fingertip. It stung, but it didn't hurt.  
  
Downstairs, beneath the wooden floorboards of Jack's room, Jack could barely hear his parents speaking with one another. Their voices were hushed and muted, most of the sound having been sucked up by the curtains and carpets that seemed quite inclined to adorn the Merridew abode. He couldn't quite make out the words of his mother and father, but he knew, automatically, that by their tone, they were rehashing a very old argument of theirs - the subject, of course, being their only son.  
  
"Was sending him to that academy a good idea?" his father would start with.  
  
"I don't see why not," his mother would counter half-heartedly. They would both be having something to drink, or smoking at the very least. Had to be some sort of drug to keep them occupied.  
  
"He never wants to go hunting with me. What normal boy doesn't want to go hunting with his father?"  
  
"Well, Jack isn't really a normal boy..."  
  
"Of course he isn't, Faye. Oh no, he couldn't be bothered to at least try out for the rugby team, but was made Prefect, and Head Boy of the choir. The choir! Bloody...!"  
  
"Dear, don't swear." "I think this merits swearing. The boy's thirteen now, and just *look* at him. Where did I go wrong?" His father would attempt to garner pity from his mother; and, generally, it worked.  
  
"Oh, Amos...it's not your fault that Jack is the way he is..."  
  
"Yes it is, Faye. Dammit, if only I pushed him harder, then maybe he would have...been fine. He's starting to come around, I think, what with that knife I gave him."  
  
"It was a lovely present, Amos. Didn't James give a knife to his son too?"  
  
"Yes; of course, James' son Ralph *does* play rugby. He said it would've been nice to see Jack and his boy play each other in a match - he was just *rubbing* it in my face, I'm sure!"  
  
Another swig of alcohol.  
  
"But that's my fault, isn't it? I did something wrong, didn't I?"  
  
"No, dear, I'm sure you didn't..."  
  
"What the hell would *you* know, anyway? You're just a woman, you could never understand how a man's supposed to work. Shouldn't have left the boy with you so much."  
  
There would be a very tense silence that followed this, along with the spritz of another opened beer.  
  
"Maybe rugby isn't Jack's sport?" his mother would quietly say, attempting to change the subject.  
  
"Jack's only sport is singing like a bloody eunuch."  
  
The conversation would go on like that for some time; Jack's father would generally complain to Jack's mother, and Jack's mother would agree in her terribly sympathetic way, no matter the insult to her or her son's being. It was an old argument.  
  
Jack lightly sucked on his fingertip, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. It certainly wasn't that Jack was "unmanly", as his father liked to word it; he simply found so many of those traditionally male practices so...so very...  
  
...barbaric.  
  
It hurt, sure. Jack always had very high grades; and yet, no matter what he did, his father would always find some sort of fault with it. For God's sake, he could sing all the up to high C# - a feat that could not be achieved by any of the other members of his choir. Wasn't that worth anything?  
  
"No," Jack said quietly. He knew the answer. He figured that, in the end, he probably knew a great many deal of things; certainly, much more than his parents.  
  
It wasn't about what his father was doing wrong, but what *he* was doing wrong. Silently, Jack gazed at the small amount of his blood that stained the blade of the knife his father gave him.  
  
Admittedly, the red on silver made the knife look more than almost pretty. Funny, how something so aesthetically pleasing could be found in something so inherently base. Plucking a facial tissue from the box in his room, he slowly wiped the blood off the steel surface, watching the extremely thin paper soak the red liquid up greedily. It was utterly fascinating, and most importantly, distracting. Balling up the used wad of tissue, he tossed it in the nearby garbage pail.  
  
Through the thin walls of his house, Jack Merridew could still hear his parents talking about him. Though he felt secure in the knowledge that he could academically surpass both of them, such a thing could not be said for the feeling that was making his gut wrench almost painfully. Stoically, he stared up at the ceiling, feeling the familiar pinpricks in the corners of his eyes.  
  
"He's a disgrace!"  
  
Jack bit down hard on his lip.  
  
"Amos, please..."  
  
"Don't you 'Amos, please' me! He's a complete waste, and you know it!"  
  
Jack felt first one, then another tear roll down his cheeks.  
  
"I wish he had never been born!"  
  
"Amos!" His mother would be shocked. "What if he can hear you, you're yelling loud enough to wake up the entire neighbourhood!"  
  
"Good! Let him hear! Oi, Jack, you hear me?!" His words would be - were - slurred. "I'd rather have nothing at all than a right pathetic sod like you!"  
  
The words themselves were not as faint as before, but still quiet nonetheless. Despite that, it was far clearer than anything he'd ever heard before. Jack bit down so hard on his lip that it cracked and began to bleed - no, he would not lose control like this, not in case his father could hear...he wouldn't make a sound...  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut; with his entire body trembling, Jack gripped the handle of his hunting knife hard, squeezing until his knuckles turned white. In one deft motion, Jack leapt from his position on the bed, and brought the knife hard into the softness of one of his pillows, ripping and tearing and hating the fact that the pillow could do nothing to resist such decimation. With hot tears still trailing down his cheeks, Jack breathed hard as he continued to rip and stab at the pillow, down flying everywhere.  
  
Finally, feeling emotionally exhausted, yet not sated, Jack stared down at the mess he had created; the beautiful, softly woven pillow cover was completely mangled, and feathers covered his bed and parts of himself. His shoulders shuddering, Jack placed the knife down almost reverently, and picked the remains of the pillow's shell up as tenderly as if it were a baby bird. Jack ran his fingers over the stitching; somebody, somewhere, had worked hard on that pillow. Somebody had poured a bit of their own self into making that soft, comforting pillow...  
  
Feeling guilty about the pillow, about his father, about his violent lashing out, and mostly about himself, Jack sobbed quietly into the remains of the pillow casing, willing himself not to hear his parents downstairs.  
  
~*~  
  
...yeah.  
  
I actually expanded quite a bit on this from the original assignment, simply because I don't like posting really, really short one-shots - unless it's a poem, then I make an exception, obviously. Anyway, I hope you liked it; once again, this is just my personal li'l take on Jack Merridew and his various quirks and foibles. Hee, foibles.  
  
Remember: reviewers are unbelievably cool.  
  
~Chibikat 


End file.
